


Alive

by magicbubblepipe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Car Accidents, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Hiatus, Post Reichenbach, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sherlock opens his arms like he's expecting some kind of warm reception. John's features set like flint, his jaw rigid and his eyes cold.</i><br/>"I need some air," he says. He steps over the shattered mug and out of the flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alive

 

                He comes back into John’s life suddenly. He whips off his disguise as John turns around with his tea. The mug hits the floor and John’s face goes slack. Sherlock opens his arms like he’s expecting some kind of warm reception. John staggers back. His knees feel weak.

                “Aren’t you going to say something?”

                That voice rings in John’s ears, echoes inside his head. He could never imagine something so real. Alive. Alive, he’s alive. It feels like his blood has turned to ice . John’s features set like flint, his jaw rigid and his eyes cold.

                “I need some air,” he says. He steps over the shattered mug and out of the flat.

                Sherlock’s arms drop with his heart and he watches John go.

                By the time John returns, Sherlock has receded to his old chair, the only light on being the dull yellow glow from the kitchen. John stands there in the doorway, left hand flexing, lips pursed, and it’s so familiar to Sherlock it aches.

                “How can you just sit there?” John asks suddenly, a pained look in his eyes.

                Sherlock says nothing because, for once, he doesn’t know what to say. He waits silently for John to continue and he does.

                “I would walk into this flat every day and see that chair sitting there… _hatefully_ empty and I couldn’t bear to look at it because it reminded me of you and I couldn’t bear to move it because it was _yours_ and that was sacred. I couldn’t…” he pauses, shaking his head and there is a painful twist to his mouth.

                “I built you up in my mind after you were gone. I made myself believe that I was more than just a piece in your game; that I was special. Me …But that’s stupid, isn’t it?” He looks up at Sherlock, his eyes weary and wet and there’s something so defeated about him that it makes Sherlock’s stomach clench.

                “John…no,” he says with a ghost of a voice because this is wrong, so very wrong. He’s got it completely backwards.

                “YES!” John shouts, his fists curled tight and vibrating with rage, “You abandoned me! You abandoned me and went on your little holiday while here I was, thinking you were dead! I _mourned_ you, Sherlock. Do you know that? I shut down. I didn’t speak to anyone. They wanted to put me on _suicide watch_. And you. You just waltz back into my life and expect it to be like you were never gone. How can you do it?”

                “It wasn’t easy for me, John but I had to make a choice,” Sherlock starts and he feels horribly inept at making him understand.

                He stands because he can’t bear to sit anymore, a hand dragging through his hair in frustration. “You have to believe that leaving you was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

                “And yet you did it,” John quickly cuts in.

                “It was necessary.”

                John gives a dry, humourless laugh and rubs a hand over his face. “Necessary,” he repeats.

                “You would have died.” Sherlock intones, his voice low and severe. “It was me or you and I made the choice.”

                “But _you_ didn’t die, did you Sherlock? I died the day we put your coffin in the ground.”

                A smothering silence creeps over them and John turns toward the stairs. “Stay, leave, I don’t care.” His voice is hollow and it hangs in the air even after he’s disappeared into his room.

                Anger, Sherlock can handle. Anger, Sherlock can understand. It’s the shocking indifference which makes him feel sick. He stands stock still in the middle of the sitting room and feels like an intruder.

 

…

 

                Sherlock’s room is exactly as he left it, save for the presence of four boxes filled with his scientific equipment- Mrs. Hudson, he thinks. The dim light filtering in from the hall illuminates the familiar curves and lines of his violin. It lies carefully across the bed spread, under a layer of dust.

                He drops down onto the edge of the bed, dust motes floating up into the air. He looks around at all the things that are his and feels like he shouldn’t touch them. Eventually, he lies back and stares at the ceiling. He’s not sure when he falls asleep but he does.

 

…

 

                Upstairs, John lies on his back with his fists curled in the sheets, trying to fight the tears that are forcing themselves to the surface. Though he feels so angry and betrayed he can hardly breathe, there is a huge part of him that wants nothing more than to pull Sherlock into his arms and never let him go.

                That’s why he decides to leave. He’ll stay with Harry until he can get his emotions under some kind of control. He silently fills a bag with whatever clothes he lays his hands on and his toiletries before descending the stairs. He finds the sitting room empty. Sherlock has already left, then. John’s stomach churns sickly and his throat feels tight. Sherlock had given up. He had just been looking for an excuse to leave John behind and he had just let him go.

                The tears come now, bitter tears of anger and loss. John is broken. He can’t bear to be hurt any more. He can’t stand the memories. He drags himself down the stairs and into the back of a cab. As Baker Street fades away behind him, John pulls out his phone and decides to give Harry some notice.

                It’s on the third ring that it happens and it happens so fast. A little girl runs into the street after her dog. A bus honks and swerves because it can’t stop in time. A flash of red paint and the sound of crushing metal is the only warning John has before the world lurches violently and goes dark. And all he can think of is Sherlock.

 

…

 

                Sherlock awakens to a presence in the doorway.

                “Sherlock,” Mycroft.

                The younger brother sits up and wipes a hand over his face as he stares, disgruntled, at the time. “Oh, Mycroft,” Sherlock drawls groggily, “what could possibly have compelled you to visit me?”

                He looks up when Mycroft is eerily silent. His face looks grave and regretful and Sherlock can feel what he’s going to say before he says it.

                “It’s John,” Mycroft says quietly.

                Many things happen at once. Sherlock’s heart leaps into his throat while his stomach falls to his feet and his ever active brain helpfully supplies countless horrific scenarios. He’s gotten to his feet without noticing, the bed sheet still clenched in his hands.

                “Moran,” it’s not really a question.

                “Not quite,” Mycroft replies, his eyelids flickering in a minute expression of sadness, “His cab was hit head on by a bus. There was no foul play involved. Just a little girl and her dog, who both happen to be fine.”

                Sherlock can’t swallow past the knot in his throat and he feels a nauseating heat creep up around his ears, making him sway.

                “Is he…” he blinks and feels a cold sweat beginning on his forehead, “Is…” he can’t finish it.

                “Alive,” Mycroft says, “but only just.”

                Relief hits Sherlock like a waterfall and he lets out a small, strangled sound as he drops back down onto the bed. His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his temples and as soon as he’s sure he’s not going to be sick, he says, “Take me to him.”

 

…

 

                Sherlock sits hunched over in a very uncomfortable chair, elbows on his knees and hand clasped tightly and held against his lips. The only sound in the room is the steady beeping of John’s heart over the monitor. For a while, Sherlock counted the beats. He counted for hours and was grateful for every single pulse. Now, he just waits. He sits and he stares and he waits.

                John has been unconscious for three days now. He sustained several injuries from the accident but none had proved severe enough to kill him. The doctors assure Sherlock that John will come out of this, well they don’t say ‘coma’ but Sherlock knows. In the meantime, Sherlock has only left his side for the occasional trip to the loo, foregoing food and rest for his constant vigil. Mycroft’s influence had come in handy in this instance; no nurse had dare bother him.

                So Sherlock sits and he stares and he waits, watching with red-rimmed eyes every rise and fall of John’s chest. Not for the first time, he reaches out and places his hand atop John’s, gently brushing his thumb against it. His gaze settles on John’s terribly still face and Sherlock’s guilt nearly chokes him. Is this what John had felt? Fear? Grief? Hopelessness? A nagging feeling that a great empty space is waiting just in front of you and at any moment you may be pulled blindly into it? Dear God, he is sorry. He’s more sorry than he’s ever been. His eyes sting and his throat burns so he blinks fast and swallows hard and he waits.

                John is stable and the swelling on his brain has gone down. Nothing much can be done at this point. Sherlock finds himself repeating the words John spoke at his grave, “One more miracle,”. Because it was a miracle to find someone who put up with him and even _like_ him and if he lost that now, Sherlock doesn’t know what he would do.

                A nurse comes in to perform the necessary adjustments to ward of bedsores and keeps her eyes pointedly away from Sherlock’s. Sherlock watches her movements like a hawk, prepared to jump down her throat if she lingers too long. They both stop at a small, muffled sound. They freeze and listen, eyes trained on John.

                Another low, groaning noise and John’s features begin to shift into something like a grimace. Sherlock is on his feet in an instant, his heart racing.

                “John?”

                The man in question twitches his fingers on both hands and grunts unhappily. To Sherlock’s amazement, he lifts one clumsy hand and attempts to tug the IV out of the opposite arm. The nurse makes a quick move to restrain him but Sherlock is faster. He throws out an arm to block her, growling at her to “get away”.

                “Mr. Holmes, I’m just trying to do my job,” she grouses, trying to maneuver around him.

                “Then go and get the doctor, you stupid cow!” Sherlock shouts, whirling around to glare at her.

                The nurse blinks, opens and closes her mouth uselessly, and nearly jogs out the door. He turns back to John and gently touches his face so as not to frighten him away.

                “John.” His eyes flicker under closed lids, eyebrows drawing down in frustration.

                “John you _do_ hear me, don’t you?” A nervous laugh escapes him as John grows more responsive. On an impulse, he reaches down and grabs John’s hand.

                “John, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

                John makes an unintelligible grumbling sound, his eyelashes flittering briefly before his fingers begin to twitch. “Come on, John,” Sherlock urges, rubbing his thumb against John’s palm.

                John opens his mouth a fraction and manages a sound like “shh,” his fingers slowly curling around Sherlock’s. Sherlock breaks into a grin.

                The doctor comes in then, with the scorned nurse in tow. “Excuse me,” he says and Sherlock is nudged out of the way but this time, he allows it. A moment later, another doctor joins them and they crowd around John so much that Sherlock can’t see what is happening.

                Over the next several minutes, the room becomes a hive of activity and slowly, through the din, comes the blessed sound of John’s voice, hoarse and brittle with disuse as it is. It’s words now, not grunts and Sherlock strains to see him.

                “Why am I here?” John asks.

                “Sir, don’t try to sit up,” says the nurse. Sherlock wants to throttle her.

                “Do you know your name?” asks the first doctor.

                “John Watson,” he replies quickly, as if offended. Sherlock grins.

                “Do you remember anything that happened?” asks the second.

                Nothing for a moment and then: “Sherlock.” Sherlock’s heart skips and his palms itch with the urge to touch him.

                “Where’s Sherlock?” John demands, panic lacing his voice, “Is he okay?”

                Jesus. After all of this and John is worried about _him_? Sherlock shoves his way through the barricade and clutches John’s hand. “Here,” he says.

                “Oh God,” John says, blinking up at him with disbelieving eyes, “I thought it was a dream.”

                Sherlock’s throat aches and he doesn’t know what to say. All this time, he’s been imagining all the things he’d tell John if he only got a second chance. Now, faced with opportunity, words and their meanings suddenly escape him and all he can mutter is, “I’m sorry.”

                The breath hitches in John’s chest and he looks down at his lap. Sherlock really doesn’t expect him to say anything so he’s very surprised when John’s fingers tighten around his own and he replies, “I know.”

               

…

 

                Gradually, the weight on Sherlock’s chest begins to dissipate and over the next week, John’s injuries begin to heal. Sherlock dotes on him hand and foot and becomes the bane of every nurse’s existence. The doctor tells Sherlock that John will be okay to leave in three more days but he can see John growing more restless and agitated with each passing day and that he’s “a doctor damn it, I can take care of myself!”

                And so Sherlock devises a rather clever scheme to sneak him out two days early, rather against Mycroft’s wishes. Which makes the idea all the more appealing. Sherlock, being learned in the ways of chemistry, concocts a simple but powerful- though essentially harmless-smoke bomb.

                He then leaves it with his homeless network and they send in an operative into the emergency room, armed with the bomb. With Sherlock’s room number in hand, the man slips past the overrun nurse’s station and tosses the canister down the hallway.

                Sherlock, meanwhile, dons a white coat and carefully maneuvers John into his wheelchair. And when he hears the startled yelps and unavoidable call of “fire,” he darts quickly into the fray, pushing John at a breakneck speed toward freedom. Under the cover of smoke and panic, they aren’t even noticed.

                He makes the block, just to be sure, before abandoning the doctor’s coat and hailing at taxi. It’s not until they are safely ensconced inside and headed home that they look at one another and burst into laughter.

                Getting in the door is a hassle that leaves them both breathless from exertion and manic giggling until they finally startle Mrs. Hudson out of her flat.

                “Really boys, five-thirty in the morning is too early for this silliness,” she titters but sets off ahead of them, muttering something about an early breakfast.

                With a bit of awkward shuffling, Sherlock manages to hoist John into a bridal carry, causing the smaller man to cling tight to him with his good arm. He cautiously ascends the stairs, stepping as gingerly as possible and hugging John close to his chest. John snarks about being carried like a princess and warns Sherlock to “just wait until I’m only my feet again and then _you’ll_ be the one in a wheelchair”.  

                “Don’t make me laugh, I may drop you,” Sherlock teases, feigning  a sudden unsteadiness in his arms.

                When they reach their flat and John has been gently deposited into a kitchen chair, Mrs. Hudson provides them with tea and toast, berating them all the while. The smile that hasn’t left her face tells an entirely different story. After fussing over John and nagging Sherlock to take proper care of him, she returns to her own flat, leaving them alone with the day slowly breaking through the windows.

                They both expect an awkward silence or a forced conversation, but somehow it’s easy. It’s so right and familiar that neither can stop talking, stop laughing, or grinning like idiots. IT feels the way it did before, like the past years had been a nightmare from which they had just awoken. The giddy warmth that bubbles up in Sherlock spreads across his chest as he looks at John, laughing freely as the morning sun outlines his hair with golden light.

                Sherlock’s heart pounds as he finds himself lost in the glow of John, laugh lines erasing three years of sorrow, bring back that spark of life in his eyes. He’s leaning forward before he decides to and he presses his lips softly to John’s cheek.

                He pulls back, lips tingling with the warmth of John’s skin and he has absolutely no idea where to go from here. John has stopped laughing but he hasn’t backed away and that’s something. The room is so quiet, Sherlock can hear is own heartbeat. And then a small miracle happens.

                John leans toward him. Sherlock freezes. John leans closer. Sherlock tips his head incrementally. John’s nose gently nudges his cheek and Sherlock can feel warm breath ghosting across his parted lips. He shivers and, finally, breaches the distance between them.

                The first touch of lips is soft, timid, and completely life shifting. Shuddering breaths, another meeting of lips, deeper, more insistent. Sherlock’s hand slides up to cup John’s face, his fingers brushing surprisingly soft hair. He’s wanted to touch him for so long. Tongues touch and that’s a different feeling entirely. Hot, wet, slick. Someone moans. A hand catches in dark curls. Sherlock definitely moans.

                They break apart to breathe but they’re still connected, their foreheads touching, hands clinging for support. Pale eyes meet dark and the air between them is warm with their mingling breath.

                “John,” Sherlock says because he can’t think of anything beyond him, beyond this.

                John gazes into the eyes that have watched him in his dreams, the eyes whose dead stare crushed his soul that day, kneeling on the pavement. Sherlock is truly here and full of life with warm skin and a beating heart. John would be a fool to lose him again.

                “After you were gone,” he starts, feeling his eyes growing hot, “I spent nights awake, thinking of all I could’ve said…what I could have done…”

                Sherlock shakes his head as if to interrupt but John places a silencing hand over his heart.

                “I need to get this out.” Sherlock listens. “I prayed and begged for just one miracle, one more chance and then I would tell you everything I’d never said, do the things I’d been too scared to do…and then there you were. My miracle. My second chance. And I blew it off. When that bus was coming toward me, all I could think of was ‘I never told him’.”

                For a moment, the room grows heavy with silence. John breaks it.

                “I love you, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock feels dizzy. His heart is in hysterics. John keeps talking.

                “You are mad, infuriating, brilliant, horrible, wonderful and gorgeous and a humongous idiot and I love you, Sherlock, with everything I’ve got. Sometimes I hate you but I always love you and I’ll never let you go because even when you’re a dick, you’re still the most amazing thing to ever happen to me. There.”

                John takes a steadying breath and blinks, his eyes wet and gloriously blue. Sherlock is torn between euphoria and guilty despair.

                “You shouldn’t love me,” he breathes.

                “I know,” John says without missing a beat, “but I do and nothing will ever change that.”

                Sherlock can’t help himself. He tugs John into a kiss, searching and desperate, and _grateful_. He feels tears seeping from his closed eyes and can’t be arsed to stop them.

                “I don’t deserve you, John Watson,” the words melt against John’s lips and he smiles softly.

                “No, but you have me. Always.”

 

…

 

Healing takes time and it isn’t easy. John’s bones mend and gradually, his heart fits its pieces back together. He and Sherlock slip back into the holes they had left in each other’s lives, the same as before but forever changed. By and by, they’re a team again. Sherlock and John. Stronger than ever and brimming with life. 


End file.
